Unimaginable perhaps; but the unimaginable is there to be imagined.

For himself, then. For his idea of the world, a world in which men do not use shovels to beat corpses into a more convenient shape for processing.

My response, a dubious and hesitant one, is that it has been and may continue to be, in the time that is left to me, more productive to live out the question than to try to answer it in abstract terms.

From one seed a whole handful: that was what it meant to say the bounty of the earth.

The end of confession is to tell the truth to and for oneself.

But he cannot see a connection between the end of yearning and the end of poetry. Is that what growing up amounts to: growing out of yearning, of passion, of all intensities of the soul?

Was it serious? I don't know. It certainly had serious consequences.